


Crosshairs

by theunnamedconductor (mysteryworthsolving)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Pre-Reichenbach to Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteryworthsolving/pseuds/theunnamedconductor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through all that was said and, more often, not said, he had always been sure of one thing: throughout this game, he’d be the one person Jim could rely on without hesitation. Acting as Jim’s sole confidant, his prized playing piece, was the constant on which he could always depend.</p><p>That day blew everything, all of his ideals, out of the water.</p><p>--<br/>A ficlet in response to WriteWorld's (writeworld.tumblr.com) prompt: "You mean nothing to me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crosshairs

Jim was never one to show affection—not in the traditional sense, anyway. And that was fine,  _more_  than fine, in Sebastian’s opinion. Neither of them was really made for the commercial chocolate or flower crap. A job well done and the bloodied cufflinks of an ex-business partner were much preferred as items of endearment.

Few words were ever exchanged between them, save orders and updates on a job when in the company of others. They had to keep things professional in front of the other men and clients, after all. When they were alone, Jim bounced ideas and schemes and figures off Seb while he was busy reading or dressing a wound. He still wasn’t all that talkative, only offering his input when those big, dark eyes—the eyes he could swear only  _he_  ever got to see, instead of the black, mad pools to which everyone else was treated—sought it from him.

Sex was another matter entirely; sometimes playful, others angry and vengeful, oftentimes animalistic (hence Jim’s use of that fucking nickname). But never quiet.

Through all that was said and, more often, not said, he had always been sure of one thing: throughout this game, he’d be the one person Jim could rely on without hesitation. Acting as Jim’s sole confidant, his prized playing piece, was the constant on which he could always depend.

That day blew everything, all of his ideals, out of the water.

The night before had been perfect. He had thought so at the time, at least. Now he regretted that he hadn’t stayed in bed and basked in the afterglow. He’d been too preoccupied with the pleasant burn of the red, upraised streaks down his back and with treating the jagged lines where things had gotten wonderfully violent that made comfort an impossibility. That was routine. No matter which bed or flat or country, they’d never stayed an entire night together.

He’d always thought he’d at least get the chance.

So he’d woken up in his own room, quite alone, to the sound of his phone vibrating on his nightstand. The text was about a job in Cardiff that would last a few days. He was surprised; he’d been expecting Jim to start with the final stages of that Holmes obsession of his.

It was fine, though. If Jim was sending him somewhere ( _anywhere_ , he realized later with a turn of his gut), he’d go without question.

Three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes later, he got the call.

The target had just been centered in his crosshairs when his mobile buzzed in his coat pocket. Seb swore. He set the air rifle to the side and moved away from the open window before slamming his thumb against the screen. “Not the best time, boss,” he said, keeping a careful eye on the target.

“You’re relieved of service, Sebastian.”

The target no longer held his concentration. “Jim, what—”

“All of your files have been wiped. Needless to say, there’s no point in continuing the hit.” The madman sounded bored, like he was listing off market statistics.

He was silent for a moment, the sun beaming through the opened window. He could hear the wind clearly through the receiver. Where the hell was he? “What’s going on?” he demanded. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You’re no longer needed.” His voice took up that false, chilling lilt. “Sorry, pet, that’s business!”

“Fuck business, Jim. Something’s up. You can deny it, but we both know I mean—”

“You mean nothing to me.”

The call ended. He phoned back, but it rang and rang until it was finally cut on the other end. The job was abandoned and he packed up the rifle.

His body had been cleaned up before he returned to London. Seb didn’t even get to see him.

Three years had passed since then, since he realized there would be no more late, rough nights or schemes or danger—not the kind he’d grown accustomed to, anyway. Now, he was in position across the street from  _that_  place,  _their_  flat, the thing that embodied all of Jim’s obsessions. He was glad the bastard wasn’t dead. Now he could have the satisfaction of killing him with one swift, unimaginably powerful flex of his index finger.

He was in the crosshairs. Seb half-expected his mobile to go off like before. It didn’t. 

Out of everything, he figured he was most looking forward to the look on the doctor’s face after the fact. He’d missed it before. Besides, it hadn’t been real the last time, anyway. This time, it’d be permanent. He’d relish in the expression of ultimate loss, knowing that at least he wasn’t the only one. They were one in the same, and this, this would prove it:

The moment he, too, lost the one that meant everything to him.


End file.
